tail as he lazily stems the current. Suddenly George gives a broad quick stroke, like the flip of a trout's tail when he darts away up stream. In the twinkling of an eye, Jim follows up this motion with the setting-pole. The canoe sheers aside like a frightened horse, and slides by a submerged rock, only to plunge on toward another, and be saved again by another sheer. It was quick work, bow and stern, to safely shoot the rapids. At a turn in the river we come upon a solid jam of old cedar-trees, roots, and logs extending from shore to shore. This obstacle we can not get over, or under, or through. Here we make the only carry on the trip. Landing on the left bank, we transport our baggage through the woods a short distance to where the Gateno flows free again, shove across our dug-out, launch her, reload cargo, and are en route once more in less than half an hour. The brooks that tumbled into the river were swollen and muddy with the recent rains. The Gateno itself was increasing in volume, and none but the smallest and most fool-hardy trout rose to my fly in the rising water. Nine miles down stream another lake opens out before us. A golden-eye duck comes flying swiftly in from the open water. As she speeds past us I drop the trout rod, pick up my gun, shoot the duck, and salute the lake with the same discharge. This sheet of water is three miles long, yet such is the plentitude of lakes and paucity of names in this wilderness that the only appellation yet granted to this pretty lakelet is "No. 3." Its A mile down the right shore rises Sugarloaf Mountain. Fires have swept over it, and burned off both timber and soil. naked peak of rock, scarred and burned, lifts itself abruptly from the lake, and towers aloft like a gigantic horn. Down the mountain - side tumbles a brook. Near its mouth, when the lake is low and the weather hot, the big trout lie and drink in the cool flood from the hills. Now the brook is a tawny torrent, yellow as Father Tiber, and the trout are off in quest of clear water. At all events, they are not here. with the murmur of the lake along the pebbly shore. Toward evening the clouds part, and the setting sun throws a bridge of gold over the water. Darkness gathers. The moon shines bright over the western hills. I paddle out alone on the silvery lake. Sugar-loaf towers dark and threatening in the east. The smoke from our camp fire rises like a column above the cedars. Not a ripple stirs the water, not a sound jars the air. Sky, lake, and mountain are asleep in the moonlight. I seem poised in infinite silence. Then the wild wail of the loon quivers through the air--voice of the lonely lake. I turn the prow of my canoe, and paddle back to human companionship. Sunday dawned bright and fair. Since trout had failed us, we breakfasted off bear steak, then leisurely started on a "Sabbath-day's journey." Leaving Lake No. 3, we paddled down a mile of currentless river, in whose tranquil flood the banks reproduced themselves, on across the round basin of No. 2, through a thoroughfare, and into Lake No. 1. We cross No. 1, and drift down stream to the Forks, where the Gateno empties into the rapid Idalto. Here we camped, and passed a quiet afternoon. Camping out makes great changes in one's taste and appetite. In a house, I abominate salt pork. After this length of camp life, I crave it. Nothing else seems so good and satisfying; nothing else can supply its place. Roast duck, broiled partridge, bear steak, and fried trout-all become a light, frivolous diet, like cake, puffs, and tarts. Fried salt pork, and but slightly fried at that, is the only solid, substantial, filling food-the only thing that goes to the right place. I prefer it to all else, have even discarded butter, and placing a dripping cut of pork on an inch-thick slice of dark Canada bread, make a meal fit for a king. One other change. At home, I am a slave to coffee, and so sure was I that I could not get along without it that I brought an ample supply for the trip. My guides drank tea at every mealblack, poor-looking tea, too. Once I took a dipper with them. This led to a second trial. My liking for it increased, and now I prefer tea to any other drink, in the woods. On a low plateau, in a grove of giant cedars, we pitched our tent. Sugar-loaf Next morning we found our pirogue rose behind us; the babble of its leaping leaking. The guides turned her over on brook ever sounded in our ears, mingling the beach, dried the bottom with flaring torches of birch bark, and carefully pour- | lakes, shot turbulent rapids, and paddled ed melted pitch into every crack. Our ship was tight and dry again, and on we paddled down the broad and swift Idalto. Of all modes of travel, from the cariole to the steam-ship, I know of none more delightful than paddling down a river through our Northern American forest. The winding stream ever changes the scene before you. Now a mountain, then the blue sky, fills up the vista. Expectation is ever on the qui vive. Around the next bend you may come upon a moose, a duck may spring from the water, or a big trout leap into air. On you glide between green forest walls. Nature is at her best along the river-banks. Rivers are not only thoroughfares for men, but for light and air, and toward the sun and the breeze presses every green thing. On either side the woods come trooping to the river, dona ferentes. Here the forest offers its choicest gifts. Fallen trees lie their length out into the water. Pennants of moss wave from their withered branches. Bushes hang their bright leaves and flowers over the stream. Above, the choke-cherry and mountain ash display their red fruit; overtopping these rise the old forest giants, throwing their thriftiest branches and brightest banners athwart the river. You recline in the canoe, borne on the current, propelled by swift paddles, and without dust, or jar, or noise, slide through the bright heart of the "merrie greenwood." Thus for two days we dropped down stream, coasted along the shores of deep on over the deep pools below. At noon of the seventh day we sailed out of the Idalto upon Grand Lake, the largest of the chain, twenty-seven miles long. Out of this lake flows the river from whose banks we had started into the wilderness, with our pirogue lashed upon Moreaud's lumber-sled. We had "swung round the circle" of a hundred miles of forest, and were back again close to our starting-point. On the hills across the lake were the "habitations of bread-eating men," the first we had seen for a week. Among them glistened the tinned steeple of the village church. The hamlet seemed a city to our forest eyes. We paddle across the lake. The prow of the dug-out grates on the beach for the last time. I take a plunge into the clear water, and wash the camp out of me. Then we each shoulder a pack, bid goodby to our tough little ship of the forest, and striking into a woodland path, climb the steep slope of the lake basin. As we emerge from the woods single file into a clearing, who should we see mowing in the stumpy field but Moreaud the teamster? Since we left him a week ago on the borders of Beaver Pond, we had not seen a human being. He swings his scythe with eyes bent on the ground, and does not see us. Jim holds up the bear's head and gives a growl. Moreaud jumps, then laughs heartily. "Aha!" he exclaims; "voilà la bonne chance!" FROM day to day came a heavy roar, Of the pit; while the rumble and roar came clear Through the hush of the night to the listening ear, To the south, where York and Gloucester lay; From over by Yorktown, far below And from night to night Hung a lurid light, Now smouldering deep, now glowing bright, With a smear of red, like a belch from the That autumn a hundred years ago. But the heavy booming from day to day Where just before That breathes from the east where the sky grows bright, A lonely rider, galloping fast, That beat on the car like the surf on the | Through the dewy incense, cool and light, The southern road, in the days of yore, To the south in the haze it melts to the eye And the people gathered along the road To catch the news as it came from down It bends to the pace, its nostrils red, In the autumn time by the river's edge, Cornwallis is taken in York below! Through stony streets of a sleeping town, To the country again that lies about, Now the noontide sun on the tavern eaves Sleeps broadly, or down through the maple leaves, All crimson and gold, it showers around In a drowsy, sleepy, indolent way. The cozy village houses stand Just back from the road on either hand. With blotches of foam and streaks of sweat, As a pebble dropped in a placid pond "Cornwallis is taken!" Then cheer on cheer The people gather, with noise and shout, With a trailing crowd of boys and men; The houses along the way-side loom Of the air seems hushed in a sombre death, Of the measured pound Then away and away, with a fainter beat By noon, by night, Through the early light Of the misty morning, fresh and bright- For he brings the news of joy and of cheer To the Congress of States assembled there. At first it throbs to the listening ear, Stream over the road with a ruddy glare. He shouts the news as he gallops past: A hush like death in the silent street; Not a sound is heard but the lonely beat Of the queer old watchman, up and down Through the silence of Philadelphia town. Like a gloomy pall hang the folds of night, Save here and there where a glow of light From a corner lamp casts a misty mark Of brightness around on the pavement dark: 'Tis the heart of the night, from which is born The fluttering breath of the early morn. Like the solemu shade which the midnight brings, Like the blackness from which the morning springs, Was the gloom that hung like a heavy blight On the cause of freedom, the cause of right; |